Hound of the Hillbilly Baskervilles
By Don Hobbs

As many of you know, I have a job that allows me to get paid for traveling around the world. It sounds nice and looks good on paper but sometimes all of the traveling can be tiring.  The opportunity to visit other Sherlockian societies and Sherlockian collectors is just one of the many benefits my job offers. But there are times when it might have been better keeping to one's own Sherlockian self. A recent trip proved it.

While waiting at an airport gate for a departing flight that has been overbooked and the five other passengers are all carrying caged chickens, one might begin to wonder if this was such a grand idea.  But when duty calls, I am there. So damn the torpedoes, I was off to Hillbilly Town, USA. We landed on the local high school football field because it was the only flat area in the surrounding mountains. Imagine my surprise when I see a flyer nailed to one of the goalposts announcing the meeting of "The Hillbilly Baskervilles: The Only Sherlock Holmes Society in this Neck of the Woods".

I quickly scribbled down the address and made a mental note that there was not a phone number or email address listed. The meeting was scheduled for that very night and since I had nothing to do until the next day, I resolved to attend the meeting.  As luck  would have it, I had packed a few Sherlockian souvenirs. This is something I generally do just for situations like this one.  I went off to find my hotel. This turned out to be 4 double-wides joined together and then partitioned off into motel rooms. A free standing shower had been placed where half the kitchen resided. I have stayed in worse places so I was not too alarmed.

When the appointed hour rolled around to leave for the meeting, I stopped by the general store to pick a bottle of something to take as a gift, I noticed they were selling Mason-jars of a clear liquid with a homemade label that stated "Baskerville's Best". My curiosity was piqued so I asked the proprietor about these jars. He just smiled and winked at me and took two jars off of the shelf. He then brown-paper bagged one and proceeded to unscrew the top of the other.  With a well-practiced move, he wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve and downed three or four adult-sized gulps and passed the jar to me.

Believing this to be sort type of local ritual, I followed the exact protocol except I was wearing a short-sleeved garment so the back of my hand sufficed. The act was repeated several times until the jar was empty. As this point the wizened old gentleman took 2 more jars from their resting place. Once again he bagged one and opened the other. We started the whole shenanigans all over again. By this time the old man's exact twin appeared right next to the original. I was amazed to watch them move in unison. This is when I realized there was only one of them and I must be a bit tipsy.

In the best non-slurred English I could muster, I asked my host his name. He said it was Hugo and he and his two brothers, Henry and Charles, made moonshine. Even in my drunken state I made the conncetion between their names. I learned that their family name, Baskerville, had been around these parts for untold generations and that one of the distant aunts had traveled to England and read The Hound of the Baskervilles. This was a factoid that dominated the family reunions and get-togethers for several generations afterwards and in the end, produced so many Hugos, Chareleses, and Henrys that it was hard to keep them all straight. Soon after that, all of the words started to sound like noise and when I woke up, I was in my partitioned double-wide motel room. There on the counter were empty two jars of Baskerville's Best.

I never made it to the Hillbilly Baskervilles meeting or did I?

Happy Collecting!!